“He used to; but now he's—you know, he's—” He stopped, so hating the word “old.” His father was old, and yet not old; no—never!
“Quite,” muttered Val. “I used to know your brother up at Oxford, ages ago, the one who died in the Boer War. We had a fight in New College Gardens. That was a queer business,” he added, musing; “a good deal came out of it.”
Jon's eyes opened wide; all was pushing him toward historical research, when his sister's voice said gently from the doorway:
“Come along, you two,” and he rose, his heart pushing him toward something far more modern.
Fleur having declared that it was “simply too wonderful to stay indoors,” they all went out. Moonlight was frosting the dew, and an old sundial threw a long shadow. Two box hedges at right angles, dark and square, barred off the orchard. Fleur turned through that angled opening.
“Come on!” she called. Jon glanced at the others, and followed. She was running among the trees like a ghost. All was lovely and foamlike above her, and there was a scent of old trunks, and of nettles. She vanished. He thought he had lost her, then almost ran into her standing quite still.
“Isn't it jolly?” she cried, and Jon answered:
“Rather!”
She reached up, twisted off a blossom and, twirling it in her fingers, said:
“I suppose I can call you Jon?”